


all that you are is all that I'll ever need

by Bluebox_Parchment



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Fix It Fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gendrya - Freeform, Healing Sex, Magical Healing Cock, Magical Healing Vagina, absolutely do not take this medical advice, but i promise you, gendry baratheon, i love that they are both tags, look it starts sad and angsty, my boy is legit now, my boy was so drunk and excited and got a bit ahead of himself, oh boy do these guys wanna fuck, post-8x04, these two make me soft, what do we say to the god of death? not today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebox_Parchment/pseuds/Bluebox_Parchment
Summary: The war hammer drops to the field, and everything around her stops. No. Not like this.[In which Gendry is injured in the Battle for King's Landing and Arya figures out her priorities.]





	all that you are is all that I'll ever need

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Tenerife Sea by Ed Sheeran. It came on as I was writing and I nearly started crying. 
> 
> Alternative title: I've not written anything in like 2 years and then Arya and Gendry have sex and my brain will. not. stop. (aka, Game of Thrones' writing is going down the toilet, but boy does that make me determined to fix it).

 

She goes down, winded, and there is a part of her that can't face getting back up. A soldier rounds on her, and she does her best to stave off his vicious blows. Needle does its best to slip past the man's broadsword, but she only manages to knick his cheek before he knocks her sword from her hands and tries to bring the sword down upon her head. She dodges, tries to reach Needle, but its just out of reach. She's about to give up, switch to any and every means necessary to unarm the soldier when blood splatters across her face and arms. He crumples to the side of her, head caved in to a bloody mess. 

Gendry stands above her, war hammer in his hands, sunlight lighting him up like the Warrior. Her heart swells with relief, and then immediately plummets into her stomach, because if he is here, then he is in danger, and once again she could very well lose him. He holds his hand out to her, to aid her to her feet, but as though the God's heard her fears and made them flesh, another soldier is rounding on Gendry without his notice. 

Quick as lightning, she unsheathes her dagger - the one she had plunged into the Night King's heart - and throws it straight into the man's face. It sinks straight through the left eye and the man drops. She grabs Needle, spins herself up, and grabs him by the front of his armour. 'Don't die,' she tells him, before pulling his face down to hers and kissing him desperately. 

'I'll try not to, m'lady,' he says with a quirk of his lips. He dodges around her and swings his hammer once more into the chest of another man.

And together, they dance and fight and bleed. She understands, now, how he managed to survive the army of the dead. He's not a soldier, but he is a fighter. Years of beating steel into submission has given him a strength near unparalleled, and though his movements are slow, each swing of the hammer fells anyone that dares come near them.

She catches sight of her brother - cousin - slash through soldiers, making his way towards the gold cloaks, and momentarily her mind falters, stomach in her throat. She can't lose Jon to the Lannisters, like she had her father, her brother and her mother. But distractions are lethal. Syrio would rap her knuckles with his wooden sword if he could see her now. Because for just a moment, she is a child once more, small and scrappy, watching the crows fly overhead after hearing her father's head taken from his shoulders.

Gendry shields her with his body, takes the sword meant for her straight to his side, and he grunts in pain, face scrunched. The war hammer drops to the field, and everything around her stops. No. Not like this.

She pivots around him and slashes his assailant's throat. And then she's back, hands clamping down over the blood pouring brilliant red between his own fingers. Fuck them all. Fuck Cersei, fuck the Mountain. Fuck that creepy rat of a Maester and fuck Theon's vile uncle. 'You're okay,' she says firmly, astounded her voice doesn't shake. He looks down at the wound, surprised at the sight of it. 'Gendry,' she says urgently. Those blue eyes flick up to meet hers. She can see him fighting to stay conscious. He drops to his knees and she drops with him, and it's so achingly familiar, but twisted, marred. He's not drunk on wine and lordship and love any longer. Now his head lulls with the pain and around them come battle cries and bellows, the stink of dying men shitting themselves.

She brings a hand up to his face, cradling his cheek. His own blood smears in the wake of her shaking fingers. She hates him in that moment. All those parts of herself she had locked away and tried to forget whilst in the House of Black and White had been stoked by his simple presence. He wasn't allowed to do this to her; kiss her, claim her, love her beyond any sense, make that ashen heart in her chest ache in his absence. He wasn't allowed to remind her what it was like to be human and then die. 'Don't you dare.' She feels half mad, panic a vice around her throat. His eyes drop closed, his breathing laboured. This hurts worse than any knife. 'You promised your Lady you weren't going to die.'

His lips twitch, a ghostly smile. The colour is draining from his face. It seems to take an enormous amount of energy for him to open his eyes just a crack. 'Not my lady,' he whispers. 'My family.' His body slumps towards her, head resting to her shoulder. She cradles him, heart racing in fear. What do we say to the God of Death?

'Not today.'

~*~

She lay curled beside him on the bed, an ankle hooked over his, a hand resting against his bare chest. She doesn't take her eyes away from the rise and fall, finds comfort in each repetition. Still breathing, heart still beating, still living. There are new bruises littering his body atop the ones yellowing from the battle against the dead. A large swathe of bandages wraps his mid-section, hiding away the worst of the deep wound he'd sustained. As though in sympathy, her own scars across her side itch and she shuffles against the linens to regain some comfort.

'If this is what I get to wake up to, I might try almost dying again.' His words rumble through his chest and he turns his head towards her, a dopey grin on his face. Her heart does a pathetic little flop against her ribs at the sound of his voice but she finds she doesn't much mind.

'Try it, and I'll kill you.' There's no bite to her words, and she trails her fingers across his brow, tracing the scar that's a twin to her own.

'Feel like that defeats the object,' he says, his eyes shining bright as he looks at her in the same way he had when he had told her he loved her.

Smiling comes easy to her whenever she looks at him. She rolls her eyes and turns away, still not quite sure how to comprehend such sincere adoration, but enjoying its warmth all the same. She stares up at the canopy overhead, the low sun casting bloodied shadows across the fabric. 'Where are we anyway?' he asks quietly, squeezing her fingers to bring her back to him.

'Red Keep.'

He huffs and she rolls back over to look at him, cocking an eyebrow. 'We won then.'

'Of course not. But Cersei saw the error of her ways and told her men to lay down their arms and then we all sang hymns for the Mother's mercy.'

He squints his eyes at her. 'So, was it you?' he asks. 'Did you get to cross her off your list?' Something squeezes her gut. She shakes her head. There's something unreadable behind his eyes, and Arya finds it infuriating. She prides herself in being able to read anyone, yet here he is. 'And you're okay with that?'

Her breath hitches against her will. For all his excited, drunken declarations, she's reminded that he doesn't love her because she's pretty, or because she's a lady, or because they'd slept together. He sees her anger, her violence, her fears and wants her in spite of it all. 'I've decided there's more to life than revenge.'

He's quiet for a moment; his hand drags down her spine and his fingers begin to walk their way back up. 'You're glad she's dead though.' It's not really a question.

She grins in spite of herself. 'Oh yes.' His fingers tangle into her hair and he tilts her head upwards. Again, he's giving her that unreadable look and she looks up at him, eyes hungrily taking in every inch of him, the healing scar above his eye, the bruises on his skin, committing each one to memory, knowing those blows were landed in defence of her home and in defence of her life.

She pushes upwards, claiming his mouth with her own, desperately clutching at his face. She had planned to be as soft as possible, wary of his wounds, but his hand in her hair tightens as he deepens the kiss, groaning into her mouth. She swallows that sound down, nips his bottom lip between her teeth. 'Fuck,' he moans and she pulls back instantly, hand hovering over the bandages, expecting to see blood blossoming like rose petals.

There's none. But his chest heaves, his breathing ragged. The sheets strain over his arousal and Arya lets a laugh escape her. 'Really?' she asks him, eyes flicking down to the bulge. 'I thought you were supposed to be dying.'

'I think I might if you don't get back here.'

This time she laughs more freely than she has in years. Gods he makes her feel alive. 'Did that sound better in your head?' she asks teasingly.

'I- shut up.'

'You'll have to come up with better retorts than that now that you're a Lord,' she tells him, feigning seriousness.

This time she can read the hurt flash behind his eyes and hates herself for putting it there. 'Who says I want it?'

'Gendry-'

'I told you, it's not worth anything without you.' He scrubs a hand down his face. 'I know - I _know_ you're not a Lady. I wasn't asking you to be anything you're not. I know you don't care about lands and castles. But I want you. Just you. In whatever form that takes.'

She feels her features soften, her lips twitching into a grin. It's still surprising to her how easy it is to feel alive with him. She cups his face with one hand and tilts his chin towards her. She seeks out his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and revelling in the pulse jumping in his throat, in his huffed breath, his callused fingers tracing patterns onto her skin. 'I could be your family,' he breaths into her mouth and her heart races.

Those words had haunted her for years, a childish plea to the only friend she still had in the world. Their foreheads touch but she keeps her eyes closed, afraid of what he might see in her should she open them. She is exposed in a way she has never allowed herself to be before. She knows now those words had haunted him too. 'My Septa, she once told my mother that I have the hands of a blacksmith.' She presses a lingering kiss to his lips. 'I hated her for it at the time.' Those bright blue eyes gaze at her with wonder, his warm hands cradling her face with such unassuming softness. She turns her head and places a kiss to his palm. 'Who knew she'd turn out to be so right?'

'Arya -' She will never tire of hearing the way he speaks her name.

She cuts off any more of his words with a bruising kiss, pouring every ounce of feeling she has into it. Again, he sparks that heat inside of her, ignites a fire in her belly, sends a thrill through her body. She will never swoon, never sit by the fire and sew patterns into his cloaks. She doesn't need the castle or the titles, she has only ever wanted him. It didn't matter he was a bastard, or a blacksmith, but she knows it did to him.

She needs him to understand, needs him to know that he had stoked humanity back into her bones. That she had thought it cut away until he had told her he'd taken the long way, but he was finally there in Winterfell like she had once asked him.

He's pulled her astride his lap, hands on her hip and in her hair and she revels in the feel of him, how familiar this is now. She breaks the kiss and there's barely any blue left in his half-lidded eyes as he gazes up at her in wonder. 'I'm sorry,' she tells him, her fingers dancing across his jaw, thumb brushing across his lip.

'For?' he asks. She hates the sudden apprehension, the way his body has stilled beneath her where moments ago it had been soft and pliant.

'Hurting you. I-' her voice falters. 'Gods, I'm not very good at... this.' She waves a hand between the two of them. 'The things that happened-' Again, her voice falters and she hates it. 'When I was in Bravos... I-I tried so hard to not be _Arya_ any more.' His thumbs rub circles into her hips and she stays quiet for a long time, revelling in his touch, her mind racing with the people she had killed in the service of the Many Faced God, and the ones she had killed for her own damned list.

He clears his throat and squeezes her hips. 'Everything you did, you did to survive.' And for those words alone she loves him. He shifts beneath her, pushing himself up until he was nose to nose with her. He grunts through the pain, and she has to stop herself from chastising him. 'I didn't fall in love with you because you're beautiful - though you are -' He ghosts his lips to her own. 'I fell in love with you because you've always been wild and brave and you wanted me even when I was nothing.'

She clutches his face in her hands and slots their mouths together. 'You've never been nothing,' she tells him firmly, lips still lingering on his. 'You've always been my forest love.' He tangles his hands in her hair and kisses her like he's a man drowning and only she can quench his thirst. He licks his way into her mouth, all heat and desire, his cock hardening against her inner thigh once more. If it weren't for the gash to his side he would have her on her back like he had in the forge, she knows.

He scrambles against her loose clothing, desperate to get his hands on her bare flesh and she remembers the last time, the way instinct had overtaken the pair of them, his lips on her throat, her nails biting against his skin. And she wants nothing more than to divest them of their clothes, to feel his skin naked and flush against her own. Heat pools between her legs, her heart races, and it takes every ounce of strength in her to pull back from his desperate kisses. 'You - you need to rest,' she says, breathless. 'You need to lay back down.'

He frowns at her, heat dusting his cheeks and flushing his chest. He opens his mouth, about to argue, but he snaps it shut after a couple of seconds. Then slowly, he slides back down onto the mattress. As he goes, his hands trail down her body, tortuously light. 'There,' he says, his voice ragged. He bucks his hips slightly and against her will, her eyes flutter and she bites her lip between her teeth. 'I'm laying down.'

She studies him momentarily, taking in the cocky glint in his eye, the beads of sweat cresting his brow, the pattern of bruises littering his skin. She knows if she insists, he will begrudgingly let her slip away. But his warm hands find their way under her loose shirt, his thumb caressing over the taught skin of her scars. Always so gentle, always the antithesis of the violence and spite that had put them there upon her flesh in the first place. If - with all his brute force - he could be soft when he touched her, the least she could do was return the favour.

She shimmies out of her clothes, and pulls his pants down just enough to free his cock. She guides him inside her, as though this were something they had done a hundred times, not just once, and he whimpers, blunt nails digging into the sensitive skin of her thighs. Finally full, she leans down, nibbling on the shell of his ear before whispering, 'If you rupture your bloody stitches though, you're the one telling the Maesters why.'

He doesn't entertain this with a response, simply bucks his hips upwards, his cock hitting something deep inside her that lights her body on fire. She curses under her breath and begins to move her hips, desperately trying to locate that angle again. His hands are everywhere, seemingly all at once, in her hair, on her breast, between her legs, on her ass, and she revels in it, in his reverence.

Her eyes slide close as she rocks against him, capturing his hands with her own, lacing their fingers together. They can't be tangled together enough. She brings his hands to her face, open mouthed kisses pressing to each finger, the swell of his palm. She still doesn't quite know how to speak those words he had offered her up with such ease. She feels it. It's something frightened in the core of her that trembles, overwhelmed by its own existence. So she tries to explain it to him with each subtle movement of her body, each kiss she drops onto his skin.

She's drawn tight like a bow string, nothing but the way their bodies move together. She comes apart with his name on her lips, and though it must pain him, he pushes himself back up to sitting to kiss her, hot and wet and claiming. She draws his gaze to her own, rolls her hips twice more through delicious aftershocks and oversensitivity and he follows her over the edge. 'Arya,' he breathes into her mouth, and she holds him to her, all flushed skin, sweat and racing heart.

She knows she must move, have him lay back and heal, but for just a few more minutes, she wants to keep hold of him selfishly, for he is hers, and she is his. One last kiss, as soft as she can be when her heart thrums this rapid. 'Will you rest now?' she asks him, smoothing her fingers across the lines in his forehead.

His eyes drop closed at her touch and she thinks him beautiful like this. 'As m'lady wishes,' he says with a wry grin, and a kiss nipped to her wrist.

She settles back down beside him, her legs tangled with his, and curls into his warmth. She can feel his heart beating under her hands, feels calm settle over her like a cloak as his breathing becomes deeper, and for the first time in years she doesn't say a name before allowing sleep to take her too.


End file.
